


Catching Stars and Seas

by lupinsmiles (perbe)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Implied Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-17
Updated: 2014-11-17
Packaged: 2018-02-25 20:05:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2634509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perbe/pseuds/lupinsmiles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Sirius,” Remus says.</p><p>If he closes his eyes, he can almost will a hole in the terra-cotta-tiled roof, through the plaster. He can imagine the rain rushing through, torrential, effacing.</p><p>“Look at me,” Remus says.</p><p>Sirius can’t help it; he does, turning, upsetting the neat pile of cloves in the process. October is etched in the scar from Remus’ neck to his collarbones. November is gathering under his eyes. “If you’re going to ask,” Sirius breathes, still looking, not thinking, “you can sod off, too.”</p><p>...Of potpourri and other tepid superstitions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catching Stars and Seas

Sirius thinks the trend started with Caradoc Dearborn—the local source of tepid superstitions—but really (simply because this is the least obvious choice), it started with Moody. This is what he ends up saying when Remus shows up at the door, and the scent of clove swirls around them in eddies of slightly smoke-tinged air—a hastily done drying spell, Sirius hurries to assure Remus, and perhaps most of his apartment is covered with various not-quite-dried stalks—no, no, everything’s quite alright—

“Your apartment is a mess,” Remus says.

 “I’m thinking of adding something tangy. Maybe clementine.”

“You’re waiting for me to ask, aren’t you?”

“I might be.”

“If I must,” Remus says. “Why potpourri?”

Easy. “Moody. Do you like it?”

Remus sniffs. “Bit strong, isn’t it?”

“It’s just been dried.”

This could mean anything: Remus shakes his head and drapes himself over the sofa. Sirius follows.

Outside, the rain falls to a beat of three, whispering against the floors of the apartment in a way that’s almost suggestive of spring. The loose yarns of Mrs. Potter’s well-intended-but-fast-fading flying rug lazily sample the air. Sirius takes a sip from his day-old (or maybe week-old) tea, straight from the kettle, and tries very hard to not to notice autumn creeping into the light, the leaves, the eaves—they are splayed carefully, with their shoulders just touching.

They’ve both pine needles and cloves and clementine peels and star anise and half-dried coreopsis in their sleeves—brontide in their throats.

“Have you just shut yourself in here lately?”

“I kept the windows open.”

“Padfoot.”

“I did. Sometimes I even stuck my head out.” Pause. Scatter crumpled greying clementine peels across Remus’s chest. Pause to stop smiling—it’s no longer appropriate. Resume. “Bathsheba brought the lot.”

“Hasn’t Prongs been to see you?”

“He said too much. I told him not to bother. I told him to sod off.”

“Missions?”

“Haven’t been owled or patronused. Why, are you here to—?”

“No, I’m not.”

The star anises smell foul—they’re mildew-ridden and the rain only encourages their odor. Sirius starts pushing the spices from the sofa and realizes the majority of them are trapped under his and Remus’ legs.

His arm settles back at his side.

“Sirius,” Remus says.

If he closes his eyes, he can almost will a hole in the terra-cotta-tiled roof, through the plaster. He can imagine the rain rushing through, torrential, effacing.

“Look at me,” Remus says.

Sirius can’t help it; he does, turning, upsetting the neat pile of cloves in the process. October is etched in the scar from Remus’ neck to his collarbones. November is gathering under his eyes. “If you’re going to ask,” Sirius breathes, still looking, not thinking, “you can sod off, too.”

Remus shifts closer. “The pot-pourri?”

More bitterly than he means, “Some of us have to keep ourselves busy.”

“I’ve kept you waiting.”

Before he can stop himself, he’s clutching at Remus’ collar, at the place where his shirt creases and bunches together, at his shoulders, this isn’t Hogwarts, “What did you do? See his name in _The Prophet_? Did it make you think of me? Now you care, now you remember I’m still around now that _he’s_ —“

“I’m sorry,” Remus says.

Sirius releases him like he’s been scalded. “He was never my brother.”

“Oh, Padfoot.”

Arms around his torso. He doesn’t want to know which one of them is shivering.

“Just go. If you’re only going to—just go.”

“You don’t mean that,” against his neck, perhaps read off his pulse because of course he doesn’t, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Sirius laughs and wonders if Remus knows it is precisely because this isn’t funny. “Neither am I.”

“Listen to me,” Remus says. “You can’t stay in your apartment forever. You don’t need to mourn by abandoning your life, Sirius.”

The rain stops. It’s too late. The window is open—has been open this whole time—and the potpourri bowl is overflowing with slightly revolting brownish water. Fascinated, Sirius lifts himself up on his elbow to watch the water creep past the brim, the ruined curtains ghosting in the wind. Bathsheba has been gone a long while, with his apology to James. He pictures the man hunched over his desk. James would do that. He would cross out all the words he thinks Sirius can’t handle—

Distractions: the ticking of the clock, just out of sync with the water spilling from the potpourri bowl, the overpowering smell of cloves and star anise and citrus and coreopsis, the old cinnamon tea on the counter, his blue-grey shadow flickering across Remus’ new scar.

Think of the details. Count. Sirius finds July lingering by the corners of Remus’ lips, waiting. August in his eyes.

And forget, “You don’t have a right to say this to me.”

Remus opens his mouth.

“Oh yes,” Sirius says, determinedly leaving July right where it is, “You disappear for months, Wormtail finally finds you in working in Scotland of all places, thin as a bowtruckle he said, you disappear again, you could have asked us, any of us, we would have helped you, I would—I owled you, sent you patronuses, you never showed up at meetings—we’d hear reports from Dumbledore, top secret missions. I thought, maybe—Prongs said he sent you money you wouldn’t take—and now you’re here, telling me not to throw my life away. Well. Isn’t that just fucking brilliant?

“Are you surprised? You think you can let yourself in, drag up all the things I’m trying not to remember, thank you very much, and you think—you think I’ll let you get off on your hypocritical martyrdom? You think what you’re doing is the right thing? You’re every bit as bad. How many times have I seen you since July? Have you even written me? Do you count the pieces of printing paper? Or do you only count the ripped pieces of printing paper with graphite smudges?”

Pause. Inhale, clementine and rain.

“Where is your life? Why do you get to leave it behind whenever you want?”

“If you’re done.”

“I’m not done.” But he does lower his voice. “What are you mourning?”

Remus pushes the hair from his forehead, frowning. “My unemployment, for one.”

“Prongs sent you money.”

“Did he tell you that I took as much as I could?”

“He told me you barely took enough to cover a week of expenses, thanked him very much, and sent his owl back with the rest.”

“I can’t live off my friends, Padfoot. Surely you know that.”

Sirius scoffs. “I don’t see what the problem is. You’d do the same for us if you could.”

“Call it a poor man’s dignity.”

“What if I called it lunacy?”

“You could be right. But you could be wrong. I’ve come to realize a few things about myself since Hogwarts—and I’ve learned if I must accept undue charity in order to survive, I’ll take it where I must and make do on my own for the rest.” Remus turns away from him so that he’s facing the cushions. His eyes are shut.

“That doesn’t explain why you can’t show up once in a while.” Sirius swallows. The aftertaste of the cinnamon tea has begun to inch its way into his throat, where it rasps against the clove-tinged air. Caradoc Dearborn read somewhere that the fragrance of certain spices could ward off misfortune—a better alternative than constant vigilance, he said. Sirius feels somewhat betrayed. “You were avoiding us.”

“So were you.”

“And now we’re here.”

Remus tucks his head under Sirius’ chin. His collar is just a little damp, from walking through the rain. “It has to end sometime.”  

Sirius can hear the remnants of the storm trickling off the terra-cotta-tiles. It’s unusual, he thinks, for it to thunder so late in the year—but stranger things have happened; he presses his ear against Remus’ and listens for the ocean and finds a heartbeat.

“Just today,” he promises, finding July at last, October and early November, tracing them with his mouth. “Just today, Remus.”

Remus smiles, even if he doesn’t appear to realize it. “And tomorrow?”

“Let it come.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, thanks to Alyssa for putting up with me while I was writing this. I may have cried at some point while writing this monstrosity.


End file.
